Farewell
by Arithanas
Summary: SUMMARY: 1620, La Fère. Saying goodbye is not always easy. Pre-book fiction. *WARNING* Death!fic DISCLAIMER: Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.


**Farewell  
**by Arithanas

The old Gothic house had been deadly silent all day, as it should be for the Master was dying.

Olivier sat by the unlit chimney, a rosary in his hands, in silent meditation. He wondered if they were not to be in this situation if he had heed when he father called him out with the words "come closer!". He had been selfish, as all the lovers in the world, and this was only the same morning ride they took every morning. His father called him out in his hour of need and he was thinking about his new wife, about her soft lips on his lips... A wife his father knew nothing about.

Suddenly, his father —that strong and superior man, the most perfect and brave gentleman, the only model worth to be followed— fainted, he barely had time to ask for help with weak voice. To said he was scared when his father hit the ground would be an understatement. Olivier tried to react with haste, but the surgeon said there was nothing to do. God had claimed his share and, in His infinite mercy, He gave them enough time to bid farewell.

How much time they have? Olivier didn't know, but time would never be enough.

A soft knock in the door tore Olivier away from his grim thoughts. Olivier's first look was for the bed, his father didn't stir at the sound. With quick but silent step he heed the door, a hope fluttering in his heart. Hope spring eternal. Good could still send succor through the men of science. The person on the other side of the door was his valet who raised his eyes to his face, the force of his grief was displayed on those eyes for all the world to see. Olivier gave him an inquisitive look and Grimaud presented him a small piece of paper, saucily folded in the way Anne had the habit to do it. There was a sad smile and a respectful nod before the door was closed again.

Secret correspondence. A _billet-doux_ while his father was in the throes of death. Olivier didn't know if he was the most doting husband or the worst of the sons in this land of God. He tried to bottle up his sorrow and only managed to form a lump in his throat with all the tears he didn't dare to shed. Was only a month ago when he proposed Anne to wait for this moment? Olivier thought himself ready for his father's departure, but he never expected it to be so hard.

He made the attempt to get near to the bed, that was his place, by his father's side. He must be next to him to hear his last orders, like a dutiful son. But the image of this man, old but proud, lying down on his deathbed was unbearable. He move briskly to his place by the chimney, ashamed by his cowardice. To distract himself, Olivier opened the note.

_The notice of your misfortune had reached me, my husband_; Anne said to him with her neat and tidy calligraphy. _I dare not to burden you with my presence in this difficult time. My heart is with you even when I must remain here. I send you my courage to help you go through it, my beloved, and bid you to think of the life that wait for us once the pain fade away._

Olivier would want to get mad at her, but he couldn't compel himself to do it. She was a child. His father's death meant the end of their secret rendezvous, the full legitimization of their union. For him, it was not as easy. This man meant the life for him.

"Did you get a girl in trouble?" the weak voice of his father asked from the bed. "There is no need to lie. I can smell her perfume."

"No, _M. le comte_," Olivier replied, with a sigh. Thoughtlessly his hand hide the note in his doublet. "I didn't get her in trouble yet, but maybe I'll do it soon."

"You were always reckless, _M. le vicomte_," he said and made him a feeble sign with a trembling, gaunt hand. "Come closer."

Olivier did his best to obey, but he had to stop before he reach the edge. He could see the shadow of the dead over that beloved brow and his will to obey was not strong enough.

"It's God's will," his father said, his voice was weaker, "don't fight against it."

"Forgive me," Olivier walk those short steps, his heart went heavier with each of them. "Forgive me if I have disappointed you."

"You never did anything else in your whole life," He said, his tone blunt, his gesture calm, "from the day you were born and I thought that you would not survive the night, everything you did was disappoint me. And I'm proud of you: you always give a hundredfold."

"Ah, _M. le comte_!"

"Call me father, as you did when you were young," he commanded, trying to reach his son, "I'll be gone soon, and I worry for you. The world will not be as willing as I was. I leave you without an ally, without reserves. I leave you single and bereft of support. It pain me to know you will suffer. No father want to see his child endure any hardship."

"I'm not a child," Olivier replied, taking his father's feverish hand. "You made me a man, father."

"And then a woman came and within five minutes you became a moron," the old count said with a heavy sigh. "God is my witness. I tried to left you well provided, but you chose your path. Promise me at least that you will behave like a man when the time comes."

"I swear to you, father, that, while it is in my power, you will never be ashamed of my behavior."

"May God bless your stubborn head, my son."

With weak fingers, the Count made the sign of the cross and crossed his son one last time. Olivier tried to stifle the moan that came to his throat at this sign of paternal affection and he failed roundly. One single tear was spilled on his cheek. The hand fell over the bedspread.

"The Divine Vine-grower knows the fruit is ripe," the count said without displaying any sign of emotion, "Gave me the last and definitive farewell, my son."

Olivier, broken-hearted, spread his arms and passed them under his father's fragile form, unable to bow to the Divine Will, persisting in disobeying the father who he loved so dearly. Twenty-five years were too few!

"I love you, father," he murmured, tightening that white head against his chest, fighting against the tears that struggled to be spill. "I love you, I love you…"

Olivier continued repeating this, again and again; his eyes on the candle beside the bed, watching the flame dance on the wick, feeling in his hands the tremors of that body and, in his chest, the last breath of that soul that was returning to the heavenly homeland. He only stopped when the candle spluttered and went out, leaving him in the darkness.

How long he spent there, cradling the dead weight of the one who was his father? Olivier did not know nor care. He refuse to left him go, because he knew his life would change forever if he admitted that his father had abandoned him.

"Master?" a familiar voice called him before a candle move away the darkness and let him see again.

"_M. le comte_ is dead, Grimaud," Olivier announced, feeling as helpless as a boy.

With a slow shacking head his personal servant dared to contradict him. Grimaud put the candle in the table and made a reverence.

"_M. le comte_ had lost his father," he retorted, his voice strangled with unspent tears, "What are _M. le comte_'s orders?"


End file.
